SLAPPING STRINGS

His jazz is thick,
mantled in hair
black with twists
rich with shine
absorbing the lights
as his hands
push the track of
strings
chasing
demons
of his love
while fingers
run over fences
in his mind
into shadowed alleys
where smoke
chokes the air
as his eyes close
he slaps the bass
awakening the life
within
spilling into ears
the many paths of him
with a glimpse
of a life
even he cannot
fully explain
with fingers
and a bass.

_____

More poetry by Roger Singer